“Thank you, and yes, I am.” She raised her eyebrows.
Laurel handed her a business card. The woman looked at it briefly. She was obviously used to being approached by sales people. “It’s blank.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I gave you the wrong card.” She gave the woman the right card, taking the other one back.
Politely, the woman scanned the card. “You’re a realtor, Ms. Slocum?”
“Yes. I’m trying to get started in Rancho Santa Fe. My territory has always been coastal—Del Mar, Encinitas, La Jolla—but I love these homes and I know I can sell them.”
The woman handed the card back, which was what Laurel was counting on. She didn’t want a non-existent name and phone number in someone else’s hands. “I’m sorry, but I’m not in the market to sell.”
“I understand. I’m simply introducing myself in the neighborhood, hoping people will remember me when they do want to put their houses on the market. I know from experience, circumstances can change when we least expect it.”
“You may be right, but I really don’t think that will happen. However, I wish you luck in your endeavors. And, if you don’t mind a little advice from a stranger, the market being what it is today, this might not be the optimal time to concentrate on Rancho Santa Fe properties.”
Laurel gave her sunniest smile. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you for your time.”
She left as quickly as she could. The woman was pleasant and once again, seemed familiar. Laurel knew her from somewhere.
She hoped she got a decent picture from the blank card camera she’d found on her dad’s desk. She had wondered where he got it, but no more. It was much more high-tech than anything she could get online and reeked of government. She kept promising herself she was going to clean out his office, but she could never quite bring herself to do it. The upcoming weekend seemed like a good time to tackle it. What other treasures might she find?
Gloria sat in the waiting room reading the latest issue of Vogue. Today, she had opted for an off-white pantsuit with a wide, red belt, a necklace and bracelet with red stones—probably rubies, Laurel thought, and red stiletto heels. Good grief. She was in a P.I.’s office. Did the woman have a clue how to dress down?
Silently reminding herself not to let Gloria get to her, she asked her to please come into the inner office and apologized for being late. Sue just rolled her eyes.
Gloria sat down as Laurel closed the door. “My tardiness may have paid off. I want to show you a picture and see if you recognize this person.” She indicated Gloria should come and stand by her so she could see the computer. When it was uploaded, the image was as clear as any she’d ever seen. It paid to work for the government if you could get all their latest toys.
Gloria stared at the picture. “Sure, I know her. That’s Ronnie.”
“Ronnie?”
“Veronica Bakersfeld. The ex-mayor’s ex-wife. We’re in the same bridge club.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not all you have in common.” That’s why she was familiar. Her picture was occasionally in the paper when she attended charity events. Since Laurel rarely bothered to read that fluff, Ms. Bakersfeld wasn’t someone she paid attention to.
Gloria’s eyes grew big. “You mean . . . her?”
“That’s how it appears.” She told Gloria about staking out the house and seeing the woman leave with Dr. Gunderson. She explained following them and finding out where Ms. Bakersfeld lived--a house that Gloria’s husband owned, and about her encounter this morning where she was able to get the picture.
Gloria shook her head. “I was right about him, but I thought he’d taken up with a younger woman. Ronnie’s at least my age, maybe older, and not very attractive. Sorry, I shouldn’t be so catty.” Laurel didn’t think she sounded at all sorry. “What could he see in her?”
Laurel printed the picture and handed the glossy photo to Gloria. “I don’t think there’s anything else I need to do. You can’t prove in court that he is with her, but it could be helpful with the alimony by just having your attorney show it to his.”
Gloria frowned. “That’s it? You can’t get proof? A picture of them together or something?”
“If I follow him around all the time, it’s conceivable I might be able to get a picture, but I have no clue how long that could take and you seemed eager to get him served. Did I misunderstand you?”
“Not at all.”
“Obviously, they are being careful. Show this to your attorney and tell him everything I told you. Get his advice. If he thinks he can work with what you have, great. If not, find out what more he thinks he needs and we’ll talk again.”
“Okay.” She clutched the picture as if afraid it would disappear. “How much do I owe you?”
“The retainer took care of it. I’ll walk you out.” She followed Gloria to the outer office. “Sue, would you please write Ms. Gunderson a check for five hundred dollars?”
Gloria gasped. “What for?”
“I didn’t do enough to earn the thousand you paid up front.” But I got more than my money’s worth with what I discovered, thanks to your hubby’s computer.
As soon as Gloria left, Laurel logged on to her computer and looked up the DEA. Both Dylan and her father could well be Special Agents, but though firearm training was one of the requirements, it seemed like agents sent to infiltrate drug cartels didn’t have carte blanche to kill drug lords. The website was more about making arrests. It looked as though if a drug kingpin was murdered, it was usually by a rival cartel, often from another country. Could that just be a smoke screen? She didn’t suppose the DEA would advertise for hit men . . . assets . . . on a public website.
During further Internet surfing, she found other branches of government that her father might have belonged to if he was, as she thought, an assassin. Maybe the DEA was only part of it. Or maybe it was another of those red herrings planted in her mind by Dylan to throw her off her father’s real job.
Gerald spoke impeccable Spanish and could easily infiltrate a cartel in Central or South America. But neutralize not one but four people? The email said, “One down, three to go.” Did that mean her father had been sent down there to kill four people? If so, by whom or by what agency? Surely that couldn’t be. She refused to believe he would kill anyone in cold blood.
Dylan was at least twenty years younger than Gerald. Why wasn’t he down there killing bad guys? Maybe he didn’t speak the language. Maybe Gerald’s age and physical makeup were less of a threat than Dylan’s. Maybe the chauffeur/bodyguard persona was phony and he spent his nights with other DEA agents on raids and gathering intelligence. Maybe her imagination was out of control. She would probably never know the whole story.
The next item on her agenda was to make a call to an old college buddy and roommate. She hadn’t talked to Josh for so long, his number wasn’t even programmed into her phone.
She dialed four-one-one. As soon as the computer gave her the number, she called it. She got his answering machine. His message said the usual things then gave his cell number. She called it.
“Speak.”
“Josh? Josh Poole? It’s Laurel Avidon.”
“I saw your name on my caller ID, but didn’t believe it. How the heck are you?”
“Okay, thanks. Good to hear your voice. It’s been a long time.” She could picture him, tall and lanky, wearing jeans and a tee shirt that undoubtedly said something on it. He collected them—especially ones with clever or lewd sayings—and had even been known to show up at formal dinners and weddings wearing one. She doubted he owned a suit or dress shirt. Thinking along those lines she said, “What’s it say today?”
He guffawed. “My other shirt’s a Tee.”
“Nice. Not X-rated like many I’ve seen you wear.”
“Yeah, well, those are at the dry cleaners.” She laughed. “Hey Laurel, you in New York? I’ll take you to dinner.”
“An expensive one?”
“Uh . . . can’t. Not that I can’t afford
it, you understand, but expensive restaurants frown on my choice of wardrobe.”
“That’s never bothered you before.”
“It doesn’t now, either. It’s them that’s bothered. Of course, now that I think of it, all any of them mention for dress code is coat and tie. Nothing about a dress shirt. Hell, I probably wouldn’t go formal to your wedding, even if I was the groom. But when you get married, I promise to provide the entertainment by doing a tap dance in Morse code.
“You can do that?”
“No, but I’d learn. How hard can it be?” There was silence on the line before he asked, “You didn’t call to invite me to your wedding, did you?”
“Not hardly. I’m a confirmed bachelorette, and, no, I’m not in New York. I’m on the left coast as usual. I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“I want to send you a code to translate.”
“You mean decrypt? I can try.”
“Don’t be so faux modest. It doesn’t suit you. Have you ever found a code you couldn’t break?”
“Yes, actually. One. But I don’t feel bad because no one else can, either. It’s called Kryptos, a sculpture at CIA headquarters that has yet to be completely decoded even by people better at codes than I am.”
“I’ve heard of it. If anyone can solve it, I’ll bet it’s you.”
“If I ever had the time to try it, maybe I could. Alas, instead I use my time decoding simpler things for the government and old friends. Now the computer does most of it.”
“Always? Can a computer decode anything?
“Not always—think Kryptos—but for the most part, yes.”
“Fantastic. Give me your email address and I’ll send it immediately. And, next time I’m in New York, I’ll treat you to dinner at the most expensive restaurant we can find. I’ll even bring you a tee shirt you can wear with your jacket and tie that will say, ‘I’m with Dummy’.”
They reminisced for a few minutes and exchanged email addresses. As soon as she hung up the phone, she copied and pasted the encrypted email and sent it to Josh.
Within a few minutes, he called her. “Where’d you find this code?”
“Online. Why?”
“Where online?”
“Uh, it was an email sent to someone who let me see it.”
“Do you know who sent it? The person’s email address?”
“I don’t remember it, but I can get it.”
“Do that and send it to me.”
“Why do you need the sender’s email address?”
“I’ll explain later. Right now I’m up to my eyebrows in work. Just send it and trust me, okay?”
She logged onto Dylan’s email. It had been sent by m78r01d20 at Gmail. She emailed Josh the information.
A few minutes later, he emailed her.
Was this the only message from m78r0ld20?
She mailed back: Yes. Why?
After a bit, he wrote again: Oops. The boss just handed me three hours (or three days, I never know until I get into it) of work. I’ll work on yours from home. Hope you didn’t need it yesterday.
Laurel sighed. Typical Josh. He hadn’t changed. He looked at the world as if it were one big joke that only he was in on. Yet he was privy to some of the most secret intelligence in the world. Maybe a skewed perception of things was the only way to maintain his sanity. His tone was flippant, as always, but during their time at school, she had often seen the serious part of him he kept hidden. She’d never told him she was onto him. He would just have denied it.
It was a week before Josh got back to Laurel. As eager as she was to know what the code said, she knew better than to call him. Josh worked in his own way, in his own time. He wouldn’t allow you to rush him. “Suppose I made a critical error because someone was on my ass and it caused World War Three?” It was his stock question and answer to people who pushed for results too fast. How did one answer a question that wasn’t quite rhetorical? That was when he first started. Did it still apply? she wondered. He said his computer did all, well most, of the work now. So why doesn’t he call?
When the call finally came, she nearly didn’t answer it. The caller ID said Sse Eeb Esrom. After staring at it for a few moments, she giggled and answered on the third ring. “Smartass.”
“It took only three rings. You’re getting better.”
“No, I’ve just been waiting for your answer so I’ve had codes on the brain for a week, S. B. Morse.”
“Sorry about that, but I have work I actually get paid for that comes first. And I doubt you have the proper security clearance even if I can decrypt it, and I don’t have all the info I need to do that. Unfortunately, you are going to be stuck with Code-Brain Syndrome.”
Laurel felt like her heart stopped. “Are you saying you decided not to tell me?”
“Correct—assuming I can even decrypt it. Who was the recipient? Who let you read the email?”
She hesitated. Why would he want to know that? She asked him.
“Because if it’s the kind of communication I suspect it is, it’s on a ‘need to know’ basis. Not to sound trite and stupid but it could be a matter of national security. Or, it could be nothing, in which case I will tell you what it says—if I can decrypt it.”
She wasn’t about to implicate Dylan in anything. She didn’t believe he’d done anything to warrant what might happen if she told Josh his name.
“It’s a long story.”
“Shorten it.” Laurel squeezed the phone so hard that it hurt the palm of her hand. “What’s his name, Laurel?”
Now Josh was in his rare, deadly serious mode, and she knew she’d made a huge mistake in calling him. Worse, there was no way out. If she didn’t tell him, he might well, friend or not, send someone around to question her or take her to CIA headquarters and torture her or whatever it was they did to people who pried too closely into government affairs.
“Dylan Kraft,” she said, mentally begging Dylan’s forgiveness.
“Dylan?”
“You know him?”
“You could say that. We’re cousins.”
“Oh great. Just what I need. What are you planning to do? Call him?”
“Well, there is a little question of why he let you see the encrypted email.”
“Which I couldn’t decrypt and I’m sure he knew that. Good luck getting him to tell you.”
“Oh, I think he will. I’ll get back to you.”
Laurel tossed and turned. Dylan deserved an explanation and a head’s up. What would Josh do? Would he turn Dylan in or let it go because he hadn’t told her anything anyway? She would never have called Josh if she had known he and Dylan were family. By morning, she still hadn’t figured out how to tell her bodyguard of her deceitfulness.
She went to the office to finalize the records on Gloria’s case. At noon, she walked across the street to the shopping center and got a deli sandwich to take back to the office. She’d offered to get one for Sue but Sue had made plans for lunch. When she got back, Sue handed her a message from. I. M. Criptos.
“Who’s this?”
“He wouldn’t say but was adamant I write the name just as you see it.”
“Thanks.” She went into her office, shut the door, and started laughing.
She dialed the number. It was picked up on the first ring. “Mr. Criptos speaking.”
“Don’t tell me—you solved the Kryptos cipher.”
“I wish. I did some checking and spoke at length with the party mentioned previously.”
“Good God. You not only break codes, you talk in code. But at least this I understand. Please go on.”
“First came the laughter. Lots of it. Then the line, ‘I wasn’t sure she would actually do it.’ I explained my part in it and he said it was fine, but I couldn’t tell you. This, after I spent ten minutes telling him how well we knew each other but, as I figured, he still said I couldn’t tell you what the message said. I couldn’t decrypt it anyway, because he wouldn’t give me the key.”
“I don’t believe this. Just who is your cousin that he can dictate what you are allowed to do?”
“You should ask him. My lips are sealed. Sorry, Laurel. If it will make you feel any better, he did say he would have to tell you sooner or later, but not on his timetable. On whose timetable, he didn’t say. I told him you’d be pissed as hell.”
“You’re right. What did he say to that?”
“He said, and I quote, ‘So be it’.”
Chapter 13
Laurel knocked on Dylan’s door. When he opened it, she said, “You son-of-a-bitch.”
“Hope you’re having a good day, too, though it doesn’t sound like it. To what do I owe the pleasure of having my mother slandered?” He stepped back. “And why don’t you come in and finish your name-calling behind closed doors?”
Arms folded, she swept past him into his living room. “You know very well why I’m here. You told me where to get the so-called code, but I’m beginning to think you just put it there for me to find and it says nothing.”
“Most people would take it as a joke. Therefore, you do think it says something. Something important. Do you honestly think I would let you see it if it was?”
“Why do you always have to sound so reasonable? It just makes me madder. I’m going to work on seeing just how far you can be pushed before you blow.”
“You don’t want to see me extremely angry. And, for God’s sake, sit down.”
She sat and unfolded her arms, but leaned forward in the chair. “Whatever you want me to think, I know the message is important. Josh Poole—you know him—says he thinks it is, and I believe him. So you throw me off the track by letting me see it, knowing I won’t be able to decode it. But you didn’t count on me knowing someone like Josh.”
“But he couldn’t tell you anything, could he?”
“You know he couldn’t. You made sure of that. Do you get some thrill out of bedeviling me?”
His tone changed ever so slightly. “So I bother you, do I?” He sat across the coffee table from her.
For The Love Of Laurel Page 9
